


crimson & gold

by justsomethingmiraculous



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Fake Dating to Real Relationship, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-19
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2019-11-26 00:50:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18173675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justsomethingmiraculous/pseuds/justsomethingmiraculous
Summary: Loosely based onRed Queenby Victoria Aveyard.In a world where humanity is divided by the color of their blood (red being common and gold possessing superhuman abilities), Yuuri is a Scarlet: a human with red-colored blood who acts as an endless energy generator. In order to hide his true nature from greedy Golds who would use him, Yuuri disguises himself as a Gold and masquerades as the fiance of Viktor Nikiforov, a wealthy Gold from Russia who finds himself drawn to Yuuri for more than just his powers.[Viktuuri Fluff Bang 2019 submission.]





	1. Vitrine

**Author's Note:**

> This is my submission for the Viktuuri Fluff Bang 2019.
> 
> There is artwork for this fic, created by rikichie on tumblr. They have been fantastic to work with, and I really recommend you check out their work!
> 
> I am planning to post two chapters a day until the whole fic has been posted. It comes in the form of short stories that connect to one another and create a much bigger story. I am happy to have been part of this project. I hope you'll all enjoy it as it gets posted!

Yuuri scowls at his reflection. He stands uncomfortably in the middle of the cramped dressing room in the back of Vitrine, in front of a large oval mirror. His reflection wears a silver ensemble with bell-shaped sleeves, held at the waist by a crimson sash, that fans out around the thighs, longer in the back than in the front. The swept-low neck exposes more of his collar than Yuuri feels comfortable with—but the worst of it is the _boots_. Made of imitation gray leather, they stop just below Yuuri’s knees, covering the black leggings he wears beneath, and sag all the way down his legs, leaving odd gaps and pouches.

Yuuri feels like an idiot. He’s stick-thin with a face that looks _anything_ but sophisticated no matter what expression he makes. Wearing this particular costume makes him feel like a little kid playing dress-up rather than a professional dancer.

“Dammit,” he mutters to himself. “Where did he even _find_ this, anyway?”

His boss—a bent, twisted middle-aged Red with beady black eyes and a sleazy smile—has a plethora of connections in the fashion industry, so Yuuri finds it hard to believe this is the best he could come up with on such short notice.

Yuuri turns away from the mirror with a frustrated groan. He’d wanted something new that would dazzle the crowd, but now it looks like he’ll be forced to wear his usual uniform.

Stripping down to his underwear, Yuuri digs through the closet tucked in the far corner of the room. All the men’s costumes and a handful of the women’s are stuffed inside. Costumes change hands regularly, but there are two set far in the back, covered by translucent white garment covers, with Yuuri’s name scrawled in black Sharpie.

There are dozens of costumes of all designs and colors. Among them is Yuuri’s least favorite: a lime green coat made of cotton gauze, trimmed with canary yellow faux fur that puffs from the collar, sleeves, and knee-length hem. He wouldn’t be caught dead wearing that. Not even if his boss offered to pay him a million yen to perform in it.

Yuuri frowns. No, that isn’t true. If his boss could swear that he’d pay him that much money, he’d wrap himself up in that bright green abomination and strut up and down the stage to whatever song his boss wanted. His dignity be damned. The crowds of Vitrine have odd tastes, even on Red Nights, so there are probably patrons out there who’d be panting for him dressed up like that.

He pulls one of the garment covers out of the closet and gives it a once-over. He’d worn this one two nights ago for both acts, but thankfully it had been washed since then. He set the bag out on the vanity table, careful not to get it in the tarnished silver containers of makeup.

Unzipping the delicate plastic protecting his favorite costume, Yuuri gingerly removes it and holds it up. The silky black material shimmers with the same color as his hair. A beautiful array of crystals run over the hip and shoulder like a sash. The outfit is covered in various gaps and sections held together by fishnet; one side sports a stylish half-skirt accented with scarlet.

His boss had insisted on adding the splash of red to each of Yuuri’s costumes. And he’d insisted so that no matter how much the crowd loved Yuuri, no matter how loud they shrieked his stage name or how many tips he received at the end of the night, in the end he would always be just another Red. 

_Red-blooded_ , poor and common and forever at the mercy of the gold-blooded gods walking among them.

Yuuri had only ever seen a Gold’s blood once in his life, when he was little. There had been a nasty fight between two Golds in the middle of his family’s onsen. After the loser’s corpse had been taken away by quiet Red EMTs, Yuuri and his family had been expected to clean up the mess on their own. Yuuri, five years old at the time, had seen splatters of golden liquid smeared across the torn tiles.

That is only part of the division between Golds and Reds: the color of their blood. The difference in pigment makes Golds stronger, smarter, better than Reds. Yuuri knows the color has only a small amount to do with the reason for the Red-Gold divide. The truth of it is that having goldblood grants Golds superhuman powers. Flight, super-strength, telekinesis, pyrokinesis—there are no limits to the different abilities goldblood gives those fortunate enough to be born with it.

Despite the meaning behind its coloration, Yuuri likes this outfit the best. It reminds him of ice skating. When he stands on the stage in the center of Vitrine’s elegant lounge, whether it be in front of whistling Golds or catcalling Reds, it is easy to pretend he’s gliding across the ice instead of what he’s actually doing—parading on a wooden stage in front of hordes of drunk monsters.

Yuuri knows not all Golds are monsters. As a Red, he tends to be treated as if he doesn’t exist by the majority of the Golds he has the pleasure of interacting with. And yet there have always been a handful or two who return his smiles or greet him with a “good morning” instead of “out of my way, you filthy Red”.

His family’s onsen caters strictly to Golds now. His parents would have loved to open their doors to the Reds that live in Hasetsu’s community again, but their landlord refuses to allow it.

The onsen had nearly gone out of business once before, when Yuuri was sixteen, due to the amount of Reds who used the waters. Yuuri’s mother, Hiroko Katsuki, had been forced to sell the deed to a wealthy Gold who owns a ballet studio and a large ice-skating rink.

Hasetsu is a hotspot for Gold tourists—providing all the luxuries Japan has to offer in one convenient, easy to access location. Reds had once come to his family’s onsen, a large building called Yu-Topia Katsuki, but Golds don’t want to come to a facility with so many “lesser beings” permitted entry.

Yuuri’s family would be more than fine with losing the business of rude Golds—but money is an issue these days.

When Yu-Topia Katsuki had nearly gone out of business, the Katsukis found themselves with no other option than to sell the deed to the onsen to Lord Hisaka Taiga, a well-known Gold businessman. He’d permitted them to continue living and working at the onsen, provided their business was restricted to Golds only.

With nowhere else to go, the Katsukis had little choice but to obey. Their business had closed to Reds, and every dollar they made went to Lord Taiga.

Yuuri had only ever seen Lord Taiga once when he was twelve years old. He’d been skating at Hasetsu’s famous ice rink with his friends Yuuko and Nishigori. Lord Taiga had arrived to “kindly” remind Nishigori’s family that their rent was past due. He was a slender, tall man with dark brown hair and spectacles that shimmered in the light. He wore a black suit and expensive gloves, as if touching anything Redmade disgusted him.

Lord Taiga’s golden blood gave him the power to control ice, so when he walked into the room, the carefully tended rink erupted into sharp crystals that forced Yuuri to the ground. He’d scraped his knees and cried out. Yuuko had grabbed him by the wrist and yanked him to the cement walls.

Nishigori had grabbed a chunk of ice from the rink and hurled it at Lord Taiga. The ice fell harmlessly to the floor about ten feet to the right of the Gold businessman, but the gesture had gotten Nishigori thrown to the ground and beaten bloody.

Red blood painted the ragged chunks of ice left in Lord Taiga’s wake. The rink had been fixed with the simple wave of a hand. Nishigori’s bones were not so fortunate. He’d spent six nights in the hospital, and it’d taken weeks for his ribs to heal enough for him to skate again. Nishigori never looked in Lord Taiga’s direction again.

With nearly every dollar the onsen earned going to Lord Taiga, Yuuri had no choice but to seek outside employment. He kept close to Hasetsu, and had been fortunate enough to find a job working as a dancer in Vitrine, a late-night lounge that catered primarily to Golds. Reds were permitted entry on Thursday nights—Red Nights, Yuuri had come to know them as.

Every dancer, server, and bartender in Vitrine is a Red. Yuuri understands that this is done to make Golds feel superior. When the Golds sit at the plush booths, sipping expensive liquor brought to them on silver trays, watching Red men and women parade on elegant stages, they are reminded that they aren’t required to work at such jobs to thrive.

Yuuri slips into the costume. It presses against his body like a second skin. He grabs a pair of black boots out from beneath the large vanity table and slides them on. Once he’s dressed, he plops himself in front of the mirror and goes to work touching up his face. Every dancer in Vitrine wears makeup to make them stand out for the crowd.

Yuuri favors pale colors, focusing on smoothing the imperfections of his face and drawing focus to his eyes and lips. When he steps out on the stage, he seeks to project an air of sexuality and desire. He doesn’t have a sexy bone in his body—but the crowd doesn't need to know that.

If he can rile them up, get them to focus on him and nothing else, he’ll receive higher tips. Higher tips means he’d be able to bring home enough to help his family acquire groceries for the week. He has no choice but to channel whatever sexuality he has into his performance.

He shies away from blush because his boss tells him to. His boss is a Red, like him, and he knows how the minds of Golds work. He told Yuuri on his first night working that Golds would be looking for proof that he was a Red, and if he wears blush, the Golds will pick up on it immediately.

“ _Show ‘em the red blood coursin’ through yer veins, boy. They’ll eat that up_.”

He finishes adding a touch of eyeliner to his lower lids when a knock comes to the dressing room door. “Hey, you’re on in three minutes!” His boss’s sharp wheedling voice makes Yuuri flinch. “Crowd’s bored as hell. Give ‘em somethin’ to be happy ‘bout.”

“Yes, sir,” Yuuri calls back, even though he feels like ignoring him. If he doesn’t respond, however, his boss will come in and drag him out. Yuuri doesn’t need a repeat of _that_ fiasco. Cover Up only hides bruises so well.

He waits for the heavy _clomp-clomp_ of his boss’s retreating footsteps before stepping out of the room. He takes a deep breath, tasting the lingering scents of sweat, cigarette smoke, and perfume. He’s grown accustomed to the smells and tastes and had stopped gagging weeks ago.

“Alright,” he says to himself. He presses the palms of his hands together. “Alright, you can do this.” He runs his fingers through his hair, feeling the prickling remnants of gel. He’d shoved his hair out of his face in order to draw focus to the sharpness of his cheekbones.

The clicking of a door causes Yuuri to turn and look. The dancer before him, a small slip of a girl who goes by the stage name Storm, marches down the tile hallway and ruffles her glitter-smeared blond curls. Her cheeks are flushed a beautiful shade of crimson—exactly the kind of thing Golds eat up.

Yuuri feels suddenly self-conscious about his pale face and the fact that his costume covers the majority of his body. He reaches for the closed door of the dressing room. Perhaps he can put on something else. If the crowd is as bored as his boss claims, he will need to try his hardest to make them interested. And if his current costume isn’t going to do it—

“You’re up, kid,” Storm says, thumping her fist against his shoulder. “Crowd’s pretty quiet, so you better do your best if you wanna make those tips.”

“Uh, yeah,” Yuuri murmurs, taking a step back and rubbing his shoulder. Years of working as a dancer on stage at Vitrine had required Storm to work out, and _man_ , she is way stronger than she looks. “I’m not so sure if my costume’s going to work. Maybe I should go back and change—”

“No time.” Storm grabs him by the shoulders and steers him toward the stage door. No sounds come from beyond, and Yuuri’s stomach flip-flops. “Don’t panic. Just get out there and dance your heart out. Find one person in that crowd—one Gold, the prettiest one you can see—and dance for _them_. Don’t think about anyone else.”

Before Yuuri can say anything, Storm pushes him toward the door and disappears into the changing room. He takes a trembling breath. _Find one Gold and dance for them. OK. That’s not so hard_. He runs his fingers through his hair one last time, considers running away like every other night, and then shoves the door open to take center stage.

He barely hears the DJ announcing his stage name, listening mutely as his usual music begins to play. Heading to the center of the stage with a flourish, ensuring that Vitrine can see all there is to see of him, he looks out at the crowd. There are many Golds tonight, and with stomach-dropping terror he realizes his boss had been right—these Golds look _bored_.

 _Dammit, dammit, dammit_.

He draws in a sharp, steadying breath.

 _OK, don’t panic, don’t panic. Just pick someone and do your stuff. Come on, Yuuri, you can do this_.

He peers out into the crowd, shrouded in the dim lighting of Vitrine. Tucked away in the plush booths are a throng of business-looking Gold men. Each of them has a Red woman from Vitrine’s bar tucked away either at his side or on his lap. Nothing to work with, there. Closer to the stage, there are a few casually-dressed Golds who don’t look much older than Yuuri and are busy talking amongst themselves. He can’t work with them, either.

He glances to the doors, where a group of three wealthy-looking Golds walk into the room and settle down at one of the vacant booths. Through the dim lighting, Yuuri just barely makes out a shock of blond hair on the shorter of the three, the wrinkled lines on the face of the leader. The last Gold sits in the middle of the bench, and as he looks up, Yuuri’s breath catches in his throat.

The Gold is _beautiful_. Yuuri has never seen anyone quite like him. In the darkness he sees perfect silver skin, the glimmering of hair the color of starlight. He can’t see what color the man’s eyes are—from his spot on the stage, Yuuri could have convinced himself they are pure black.

 _Him_. Yuuri holds his arms out, preparing to dance before the crowd as music swells around him. _He’s the one_. He waits for the Gold to turn and look at him—their eyes lock for an eternal moment, and Yuuri gives him a seductive smile, promising to focus on him and only him for the remainder of the dance. _Let’s give him a show_.


	2. Stage

Viktor Nikiforov stares out the window on his side of the scarlet taxi cab. The fog has thickened—the dark evening skies above Hasetsu are streaked with silver storm clouds and the air smells of petrichor. He can barely make out the dark shapes of Red figures running through the streets to avoid the rain, should it decide to start falling.

Riding through taxi is exciting. The air shimmers with the beginnings of a storm. Rainbow streaks mark the puddles from rain that had fallen earlier that day. Viktor had been in Hasetsu for only a few days, and until today, it had been sunny and comfortable. He doesn't mind a bit of rain. He woke that morning and peered out his hotel window at the fat droplets splattering against the windowpane.

The only downside to a rainstorm meant there was no chance Yakov would let him go flying that evening. Rainstorms were often accompanied by thunder, and thunder went alongside lightning. Viktor enjoys the sensation of wind rustling through his hair, but he doesn't fancy being stricken from the sky and sent plummeting to the earth below.

_Ah, well_. They are set to remain in Hasetsu for at least a few more days, exploring some of the more rural sections and getting in some much-needed rest before returning to St. Petersburg and diving right back into rigorous training. Competitive, professional figure skating required strict devotion and countless hours of practice. There will be plenty of time for flying when the weather clears.

Sitting between Viktor and Yakov, a tall elderly man dressed in a thick grey trench coat, is Viktor's fellow competitor: Yuri Plisetsky. Yuri sits with his arms folded over his chest, burrowed into the leather seats of the taxi with a horrendous scowl on his face.

Unlike Viktor, Yuri hadn't appreciated the sudden vacation. Ever the hard-worker, Yuri thrust himself wholeheartedly into everything he did. He refuses to let anyone upstage him, and even though Yakov hadn't given him a choice in the matter about taking a vacation, Yuri had complained about it the entire time.

"This is so stupid," Yuri mutters, softly enough that Viktor wonders if he's trying to prevent Yakov from hearing.

"Hush," Yakov scolds, and Yuri's shoulders shoot to his ears. Viktor bites back a laugh. Yakov knocks the back of his hand against the window. "Over here," he says to the driver, a middle-aged Red dressed in a dark suit. "Our stop is up there."

The taxi cab pulls to a gentle stop at a corner. Across the street the colorful lights of a large stone building spill out into the fog, along with a steady stream of Gold drunkards. Some of them—dressed in dark, expensive suits—have Red women tucked on their arms. The women’s vermilion dresses glimmer with faux crystals; their lips are painted, their eyelids darkened with powder.

Yakov reaches past Viktor and Yuri to swing the taxi cab door open. He steps down onto the pavement and holds the door open as Yuri comes down after him. Viktor glances down the street. There are many Golds and more than a few Reds bustling about, but the three of them go mostly ignored.

Yakov hands a wad of bills to the Red driver. He takes them with a gracious nod and practically falls over himself trying to thank them. “Have a good night,” says Yakov. He leads Viktor and Yuri across the road to the closed silver door of the building.

There are stone stairs on both sides of the door, leading to large apartments. Red houses, Viktor guesses. He follows Yakov to the silver door, Yuri right on his heels. Yakov shoves the door open and then promptly shoves Viktor inside, gesturing for Yuri to follow.

Inside the building is a narrow corridor. A sweet scent hangs in the air—and beyond that, Viktor smells alcohol. Off to the side, shrouded in shadows, stands a woman in a long red dress, fitted so tightly to her body that Yuri steps back. The woman has dark brown hair piled on top of her head like a crown, held in place by a metal, crimson circlet.

She’s beautiful and Red, Viktor notices without surprise. Her skin is pale, but he can see the telltale flush on her cheeks, sees the mapping of purple veins running like dark rivers over the tops of her breasts. Her mouth is painted with scarlet lipstick. It turns up at the corners as her gaze falls on Yakov—she must notice his suit, the expensive pocket watch hanging from his belt.

"Good evening, gentlemen," she says, smiling at them with all her teeth. Between her violent red lips and her pink gums, her teeth are too white. Pretty pearls that flash in the dim light. "This way," the Red woman says, smoothing her long skirts and guiding them down the long hall. She's wearing long heels, also colored a jarring red, and they clack through the carpets as she hurries along.

Following behind Yakov, Viktor steps into the main sitting area of the building. Inside, it's clear that Yakov has brought them to a club of sorts: The walls are lined with velvet benches and intricate booths, on which countless figures huddle—all of them Golds, surrounded by Reds whose dresses and shirts are made of brightly colored crimson fabrics. The words VITRINE, which Viktor guesses is probably the name of the club, hands in crimson letters in the back of a fully-stocked bar, where two Red woman in sequined vests mix tall drinks.

Music pours from the wooden stage at the back of the large room. Thanking the Red woman and dismissing her with a gentle word, Yakov moves toward a booth set at a location where the pounding thumps from the speakers don’t rattle the floors, with a clear view of the entertainment. The woman watches him go with an almost sad expression, but then she moves back to the front of the room and down the hall to her post before Viktor can think much more on it.

A young man in a glossy black outfit covering him from neck to toe slinks across the stage, gliding like a figure skater to a song that reminds Viktor of snow falling over a frozen lake. As the boy turns, his slicked back hair glitters like spilled oil beneath the stage lights.

Yakov ushers them both into the booth. “Wait here a moment,” he instructs, and then he hurries off in the direction of the bar.

“Tch, _lovely_ ,” Yuri mutters, edging closer to Viktor. Viktor has taken the middle of the booth, facing the beautiful wooden stage. Another Red woman in a tight vermilion dress sways by them, carrying a silver platter filled with wine-glasses. She smells of expensive perfume; a way to entice wealthy Golds into passing money her way, no doubt.

“Who knew Yakov was such a partier,” Viktor comments. “Never would have imagined he’d bring both of us to a club.”

“It’s a _restaurant_ , not a club,” Yuri interjects. His face flushes a bright sun-colored hue. Viktor can't help but smirk. It’s always amusing to see Yuri flustered—the self-proclaimed Ice Tiger of Russia almost never permits himself to be flustered in public.

“Just because you can get food here doesn’t mean it’s a restaurant. See the stage, there? Dinner theater, maybe, but do you see all the women sitting over there with those gentlemen?” Viktor gestures to a handful of Red women flocked around a table full of laughing Gold men. “They’re _workers_ , little one. Paid escorts. Vitrine is a Gold club, not a restaurant.”

“Do _not_ call me ‘little one’,” Yuri snarls. He tightens his grip on the edge of the table, smoke beginning to billow from his fingertips, just as Yakov appears with a silver tray and three tall drinks in elegant glasses. Two of the drinks are clear, but the third holds a golden liquid that Viktor guesses is non-alcoholic.

Yakov pins Yuri with a firm look. Yuri sheepishly removes his hands from the table, wafting the smoke through the air in an attempt to dissipate it before anyone notices. Viktor can't help but be impressed. The last time he set Yuri off in a public place, the entire table went up in flames. He'd been practicing some much-needed self-control.

Viktor distributes the beverages between them—the two clear drinks go in front of himself and to the empty spot in the booth where Yakov will be sitting, and the other beverage slides across the table toward Yuri.

He gives it a sniff and draws back, offended. “ _Apple juice?_ Apple juice, Yakov, are you _kidding_ me? I’m not a child!”

“Quit complaining,” Yakov snaps, edging into the booth. He takes a deep swig of his drink and sets it on the table without a sound. Yakov has always put so much effort into not being an obnoxious patron—other Golds are shouting to the Red waiters to bring them more booze, or to turn up the music, or hurry up with their food.

Yuri mutters to himself about how unfair it all is, but takes a sip of the apple juice regardless. Viktor chuckles and turns to watch the entertainment on the stage.

The young man is looking back at him.

Viktor’s mouth goes dry, and he _stares_. His hands grip tightly around the glass of vodka before him. Electricity dances over his scalp, prickling down his arms and setting every nerve on fire. Beneath the brilliant fluorescent bulbs of the stage, he can see every detail of the young man’s mahogany irises. _Beautiful_. The young man gives him a seductive smile, a quick upward quirk of his lips, just as the corner—and Viktor feels his body flare up.

Viktor leans toward the wooden stage. He’s vaguely aware of Yakov looking at him. The smell of alcohol and perfume crushes down around him. The young man on stage is nearing the end of his dance, striding up and down the wooden platform. Whenever he turns, the lights catch a handful of dagger-sharp crystals stitched like a sash across his shoulder and down to his hip, scattering an array of rainbows over the crowd.

“Hmm, that's odd,” Yakov murmurs, and his voice is too loud in the midst of the boy’s performance. “It’s not everyday you see one of _them_.” He takes another deep sip of his drink. His cheeks are flushed from the heat and, Viktor suspects, the alcohol in his glass.

Viktor’s right hand twitches. Part of him wants to reach out to the young man on stage. His eyes remain on the dancer’s expression—his half-parted lips, glossy maroon eyes, and the flawless gleam of his skin. Elegantly long fingers brush over his collarbone, and Viktor laments that it was covered by a thick map of fishnet. The scarlet flush in the young man’s cheeks reveals that he’s a Red, sending an arousing splash of color over his delicate features.

Yuri squints through the dim light and watches the young man on the stage without much interest. "One of what? He's just a Red, isn't he?"

Yakov sets his half-empty drink on the table and shakes his head. "You've likely never seen one before," he remarks. "That's not surprising. They're pretty rare, after all. Poor thing probably has no idea what kind of trouble he'd be in if any of these Golds found out what he really was."

Yuri, frustrated with Yakov's lack of a clear answer, but also knowing that he's unlikely to give up the information that easily, gives up. He snatches his glass of apple juice, muttering to himself, and gulps the contents down in several harsh swigs.

Viktor ignores both of them. In that moment, it doesn't matter if the young man on the stage is a Red or a Gold or something else entirely. Viktor's caught on each move he makes like a fish on a hook. He doesn't struggle to break away from it. He sits, transfixed and silent, as the young man finishes his dance with a flourish.

The crowd offers a few scattered applause. Viktor's still frozen, unable to bring his hands together. The young man bows to them, his face flushed with color, that same smile plastered on his face. He doesn't look real. Almost as if Viktor can see straight through him—almost as if he can see the pulse of his heart, pushing that scarlet blood through his veins. The young man takes another bow and turns to leave the stage.

In an instant, the spell over Viktor is gone. His knees ache, and he almost pitches forward against the table. Yakov isn't looking at him. Yuri gives him a sideways glare. Viktor ignores them both. He begins to scramble to his feet, body aching with the desire to scramble over the table, sprint to the edge of the stage, call out to the young man, and—

But the young man is already walking around the stage curtains, disappearing into the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come hang out with me on tumblr (@just-something-miraculous)


	3. Yutopia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the amazing comments on this story! I'm glad everyone is enjoying it so far!

Nestled deep in the more rural area of Hasetsu is an imposing building. To Gold tourists, it is a vast enough difference from the iron structures of the cities to warrant a quick visit. To Yuuri, it is a building he knows as well as his own skin―Yutopia Katsuki, his family's onsen.

Or rather, the place that had once belonged, in its entirety, to his family. Lord Taiga technically owns the rights to Yutopia Katsuki, despite permitting Yuuri and his family to continue to call it "home". Despite the abrupt shift in ownership, Yuuri still finds the structure comforting. Reds might no longer be allowed as patrons, but Yuuri's memories of a time before Lord Taiga's changes keep his spirits high enough. It is a reminder that the Golds were not always so powerful. A promise that, someday, the world might return to a time when the color of ones blood didn't define their strength in the world.

The stone pathway leading toward home causes Yuuri's feet to ache as he trudges along. He'd performed twice that night, and then assisted Storm with cleaning out the dressing room and then, after Vitrine had closed for the night, scrubbing tables with the waiters and restocking the bar.

He'd looked for the Gold again the second time he'd come out on stage, but hadn't found him anywhere. _Probably for the best_. The crowd had remained dutifully bored during Yuuri's first dance, and hadn't seemed to warm up any during his second. His tips had been mediocre, at best. No worse than Storm or Minako's, certainly, but nothing worth celebrating.

Yuuri clutches the small handful of crinkled red bills. Crimson Cash―the currency used among Red markets―doesn't buy much in the way of luxury, but Yuuri thinks he might be able to convince some of the merchants to part with a few extra slices of bread when it's his turn to do the grocery shopping.

Hurrying toward home just as the morning sunlight begins to creep over the horizon, Yuuri glances back toward the streets of Hasetsu. The Golds are tucked away in their warm beds, eagerly awaiting another day of business or pleasure. And yet already the streets are beginning to fill with Red merchants hurrying to set up shop at the market, or vendors hoping to peddle their wares to the Golds they are likely to encounter once the sun's fully risen.

Bright red taxi cabs sit idle along the sides of the road, and Yuuri can't help but he jealous. Taxis cater primarily to Gold tourists and those few Reds who can afford them. Yuuri has never ridden in a taxi. He could never afford to waste the money. Instead, he is forced to walk to and from work, regardless of how much his legs and feet ache after a long night.

Before the Katsukis had become indebted to Lord Taiga, Yuuri's mother had assisted a seamstress in the Red market. An older woman named Nanami who could weave beautiful tapestries that the wealthier Golds loved to buy. As Nanami grew older, her fingers could no longer move through the fabric in the pleasing manner in which her clientele were accustomed. Hiroko had stepped in to assist until her own duties at the onsen had summoned her away for good. Sometimes Yuuri finds himself wondering if Nanami had been able to save her coins and make a comfortable life for herself in her old age. He doesn't know if such a thing is possible in Hasetsu, but he likes to dream.

Inside, Yuuri's mother, Hiroko, labors over the stove, meticulously stirring a pot while his father, Toshiya, sweeps the dirt from the main sitting area. Yuuri's older sister, Mari, sits at the table and counts the piles of red bills and assorted coins collected from the night before. It is her job to go into the market today, and it's important to budget.

"I'm home," Yuuri calls, to no one in particular.

Mari grunts in reply, reaching her hand behind her. Yuuri places the Crimson Cash he's collected from the night before into her fist. She adds it to the pile with a quiet "thanks" and resumes her count. She mouths the numbers aloud, the low hum of her voice fading in the otherwise quiet open space. Yuuri doesn't mind Mari's silence. Counting their daily intake of currency is an important task. He knows his older sister well enough to know that, once she's finished counting it three times, she'll come ask about his day. He'll ask about hers, too, and they will both lie to each other about how tired they are. It's a game Yuuri knows well.

"Welcome home, dear." Hiroko sets the spoon off to the side and pats her hands on her apron. She's much shorter than Yuuri, and yet she reaches up and pulls him down into a fierce hug. Sometimes, when things are bad, a few Reds might not make it home in one piece. Many Golds are generous in their spending, but some are greedy despite their wealth and strength. Some Reds grow desperate during a particularly bad month and turn on those who walk the streets after dark. Yuuri and his family, fortunately, have never been the victims of a mugging, but Yuuri doesn't like taking chances.

"How was work?" Toshiya calls, kneeling on the ground to sweep the dirt into the dust pan. His weary bones creak, and Yuuri catches the quick grimace that flickers across his face.

"It was all right. Pretty uneventful." Yuuri untangles his mother's arms from his neck and hurries over. He takes the broom from his father's fingers and quickly sweeps the pile into the dustpan. He then offers a hand to Toshiya, who takes it gratefully and pulls himself to his feet. "How about you?"

"Pretty uneventful, as well," Toshiya replies, and Yuuri catches the sullen tone in his voice. _Uneventful_ means less clients. _Uneventful_ means less money in Lord Taiga's pocket, and more misery for the Katsukis if their business doesn't pick up. "Slow's not so bad, once in a while. We just have to make it to the summer months, that's all."

Summers in Hasetsu were filled with Gold tourists. Much of the time, Yuuri doesn't sleep. He spends his nights dancing on Vitrine's stages, gathering tips, and then hurries home to clean up the onsen with his sister while his parents cater to the influx of Golds eager to experience a Japanese hot spring.

And yet, miserable as summers might be from a working stand-point, it is a perfect time for business. A period in which the Katsukis can rake in enough money to satisfy Lord Taiga and also to supply their own minuscule needs. Extra groceries. Slightly better cuts of meat and larger loafs of bread. Better cleaning implements to make the floors and tables shine, so their clients provide them with good reviews and continue to return.

Before whatever good mood can dissipate, Hiroko scurries over to the stove and turns down the dial. "Breakfast will be ready soon," she says, and Yuuri almost laughs. It's early enough in the morning that a meal could be considered _breakfast_ , but neither he nor his family have gone to sleep yet. _Shouldn't it technically be 'dinner'?_

The scent of chicken broth washes over him, and Yuuri's stomach growls. There's almost nothing to the soup―some broth, a few bits of vegetable, and some small chunks of chicken left over from their dinner a night ago―but anything in his stomach is better than the emptiness he's been dealing with all night.

Yuuri swallows down a few mouthfuls of the soup, letting the warmth wash over him. It doesn't taste as bland as he initially thought it might. There's some spices mixed inside, and Yuuri's pleasantly surprised. Business at the onsen must have been better than he feared. Hiroko isn't liberal with her use of spices. Such luxuries are expensive. Her usage of them must mean that the Katsukis had made a bit more money in the last week.

Mari finishes counting the money and quickly sweeps it all into a pile. She places the assortment of bills and coins into a green pouch and zips it shut. She'll make a trip to the bank once the sun has risen higher in the sky and the streets are bustling with Golds and Reds. Walking anywhere at this time of day, when the sky is still dark, with _any_ amount of money is a large, unnecessary risk.

The Katsukis lapse into a comfortable silence, eating breakfast together. In the absense of speech, Yuuri thinks back to the blue-eyed Gold he'd seen during his first dance. _Beautiful_. A foreigner, most likely. Yuuri has never seen eyes quite like that in Hasetsu. The color of the deepest part of the ocean, twin sapphires set in a pale, well-sculpted face.

_Stop thinking about him_ , Yuuri scolds himself. _It's not like I'll ever see him again_. Gold tourists come and go all the time. Vitrine has a few guests who can be considered regulars, but not many. Yuuri seldom sees the same faces more than once. He'll likely never see the blue-eyed Gold again. Just another tourist, sweeping in like a storm and disappearing into the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come hang out with me on tumblr (@just-something-miraculous)


	4. Stricken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, everyone! Things have been hectic for me, since I am about to move to a new apartment. But I'm back at it, and I hope to keep updating this as often as I can, since the final day to finish posting is approaching quickly. Thank you everyone for your continued support, and I hope that you enjoy this story!

Vitrine is, as always, packed when Yuuri steps out again to perform.

Unlike the night prior, Yuuri dresses in dark blue with only the faintest splash of red along the length of his spine. A dark mapping of mesh reveals the panes and lines of his back and shoulder blades. Something he's worn in the past, but not for some time. Long enough for most of the regulars to find it interesting. Yuuri doesn't mind this outfit so much. It's less revealing than some of the other dancers', and ignoring the cat calls from drunk Golds, Yuuri thinks he looks decent enough in it.

Yuuri supposes the Golds don't care much about what the dancers look like. The Gold tourists come and go throughout the season. All they look for is quick entertainment. Reds to amuse them while they drink expensive wine, travel to exotic places, and enjoy luxury while most Reds struggle to get through a single day.

 _Not all Golds are like this_ , Yuuri tells himself. But more than enough are, and for many Reds, that's all that matters.

Yuuri wishes he could have stayed home to help his mother. The onsen wasn't particularly busy in the evening, but tomorrow could be a different story. Hiroko and Toshiya would likely be awake when Yuuri got home in the morning, neither of them having gone to bed yet.

Sometimes Yuuri wishes he could afford to give them a vacation. He and Mari would run Yutopia Katsuki while their parents took a week off to enjoy themselves. But the onsen relied on Yuuri's income from Vitrine. It relied on Mari's money management. A week off might not seem like forever, but it could do quite a bit of damage.

 _Someday_ , Yuuri thinks, lifting his hands and plastering a huge, false smile on his face. _Someday we'll be able to do something nice for them_.

The low din in the club swells around him, mixing with the familiar thrum of the dance music. There are eyes on him, but Yuuri enjoys the attention. He turns around and around, slowly with his arms drifting through the air. He steps across the wooden stage, his boots thumping lightly across the surface.

Yuuri steps toward the back of the stage―and then a sound erupts from the crowd of Golds.

Two men, dressed in black business suits with loose ties, stand on opposite ends of a booth. Yuuri can't tell from his spot on the stage, with the music pounding around him, but from their twisted expressions, they appear to be in the midst of an argument.

Not uncommon. Golds sometimes argue with each other after enough alcohol has entered their systems. There are issues among the Gold community about superiority due to powers. Sometimes alcohol brings out those deep-rooted aggression. Those competitive natures that are so carefully hidden in daylight hours.

Yuuri relaxes and doesn't think much on it. His boss will likely break up the argument before it develops into a full-blown fight. Calm them down and separate them before things spiral out of hand. It's not Yuuri's business, nor his concern, really. He has guests to entertain.

Or so that's how the night _should_ have gone.

A flourished finish, some scattered clapping, and then another performance an hour later.

Instead, the two arguing Golds dive for each other.

Yuuri halts mid-step on the stage and turns toward them, slow and horrified―just as an explosion of white and red destroys parts of the floor, the walls, and the booth the two Golds had been standing before.

Yuuri sees the explosion. Not as bright as he would have thought, but enough for his eyes to water. Explosive powers are common in Golds, he remembers. A "lesser" ability, due to its abundance. He's not sure if only one of the Golds has the ability or if both of them do. It doesn't matter. All that _does_ matter is that there's a considerable amount of damage to Vitrine, now. Rips in the walls and scatters pieces of furniture sailing through the air like a flock of startled birds.

Pieces heading toward him.

Yuuri doesn't have the time―or the strength―to stop them.

Debris slams into Yuuri, throwing him down against the wooden floor. The palms of his hands scrape across the boards. His knees strike the stage, and dizziness washes over Yuuri like a wave crashing. Nausea twists in the pit of his stomach, his vision going black and fuzzy at the corners.

Screams burst from the crowd. Red waiters dive for the nearest booth, scrambling over the laps of stunned Golds. Out the corner of his eye, Yuuri sees his boss burst out from behind one of the doors. His cheeks are flushed with rage, and he hurries across the floor, waving his hands and shouting.

"What are you doing?" he shouts at the two business men. "Stop it! Stop it _right now!_ "

Both of them have their arms wrapped around each other, squeezing hard, neither willing to surrender first. The explosions are no longer wrecking the floor―but the damage has been done. From what Yuuri can tell at a quick, stunned glance, no major injuries have been caused. He doesn't see blood, gold or crimson, smeared across the floor. For the most part, terror gripped the Reds and more than a few Golds.

Yuuri sees movement toward the back of the room. An older Gold, dressed in a large coat, rises from one of the few booths that hasn't been damaged. He has a companion stepping alongside him. Yuuri can't tell through the fuzzy grey blotches clouding his vision, but he thinks he might recognize the older Gold. He watches them both quickly scurry across the damage, toward both Yuuri's boss and the two Golds still wrapped around each other.

"All right, that's enough," says the older Gold, his voice loud and commanding. He steps in front of Yuuri's boss, casting him a reassuring look, and peers down at the Gold duo. "I said, that's _enough_. You're causing a scene. Stop it immediately."

" _Shut up!_ " one of the Golds bellows, shoving away from his opponent. "What the fuck are you even―" The Gold steps back with a sharp intake of breath as a fiery projectile explodes in front of him. The other Gold staggers back, as well, tripping over the shattered bits of the surrounding tables and the shards of broken glass. He flails his arms in an attempt to halt his descent, but lands in a heap with his legs held in the air like crooked television antennas.

Both of them glance over at the young man standing beside the older Gold. He's short and slender, his fingers extended and glowing with the lingering effect of forming and throwing a fireball. His hair has transformed into a mane of golden flames, crackling and snapping around his cheekbones. His eyes flicker like fanned coals, and there's a deep scowl plastered on his lips.

"That's better," the older Gold says. He casts a sidelong glance at the Gold standing beside him, and then says, "And _you_ calm down, too."

"What? Oh." The younger Gold seems to notice his burning hair for the first time. His face flushes an embarrassed yellow. He reaches up and brushes his hands through the nest of fire, smoothing them down until they settle into regular locks of sunshine-blond hair. He mutters an apology and yanks the hood of his shirt up over his skull, hiding both his hair and his face from the crowd.

"Now then," the older Gold remarks, turning his attention back to the others.

Yuuri stops listening. He struggles to get to his feet. His left knee buckles beneath him, and he practically collapses back to the floor. Pain lances through his arms and legs in bolts of red electricity. A warm wetness trickles down the side of his face, plastering his hair to his ear. He hopes he's not bleeding.

Someone hurries up the stairs on the far end of the stage―damaged from where part of the table smashed into it. Yuuri doesn't look up. It's probably his boss. Or Minako. It might be Storm, too, but Yuuri thought he saw her pile of blond curls diving for safety behind the bar. He doesn't think she's come from hiding just yet.

The shadows loom over Yuuri, and a pale hand reaches out and hovers in front of him. "Are you all right?"

Yuuri frowns. He doesn't recognize the voice. Heavily accented, foreign in a way that Yuuri can't seem to place. He's surprised he can hear anything over the roaring in his skull.

"I―I'm all right," he says, though he can already tell he's anything _but_. His left leg doesn't seem to want to move. His right one curls beneath him and tries to push him to his feet, but the other one remains stubborn and twisted beneath him. Not broken, but most likely sprained. Yuuri's head buzzes with unhappy butterflies. _Dammit_. He can't afford an injury. Not now.

The pale hand shifts and comes to rest against Yuuri's shoulder. "Hold on," that strange, unfamiliar voice says, and Yuuri stops trying to stand up. "You were hit pretty hard. Does your leg hurt?"

 _Yes_ , Yuuri thinks, but nothing comes out of his mouth. Because he's turned his head to see _who_ the voice belongs to, and it's _him_. The Gold from the other day. Large ocean blue eyes staring back at Yuuri, wide with shock and silver brows furrowed into a look of concern.

"I―I―I'm fine," Yuuri says quickly, hands trembling as he tries to get to his feet once again. Static dances down his spine. His leg aches, and he shudders. He doesn't want this Gold to see him like this. _Please don't let me be bleeding_ , Yuuri thinks, head spiraling. _Please, just don't let me be bleeding_.

"You're bleeding," the Gold says, surprise accenting his words. He reaches out and cups Yuuri's chin, turning his head until their eyes are locked. And that's when Yuuri feels it―a trickle of warmth down the side of his face. He draws back from the Gold with a pained hiss. The Gold pulls his hand back with a quick apology. "Stay still," the Gold urges, placing his hands on Yuuri's shoulders and steadying him. "You're really hurt."

Yuuri shakes his head, immediately regretting it as his vision blurs. "I'll be fine," he says. His mouth tastes like metal and his body feels heavy, but he can't afford to be injured.

"I insist," the Gold says, and this time his voice is firm. He holds Yuuri firmly in place, and after a moment, says, "Please. You don't want to make your injuries worse than they are."

Yuuri feels an argument welling inside him. He opens his mouth to speak―and then nausea spikes through him like lightning. Starting at his toes, dancing through each nerve ending until it lands in his brain. He bites back another pained hiss and sinks back against the Gold, swallowing down bile. He can't hear the Golds comforting murmurs, can't feel those arms around him. He sits in the fuzzy darkness and lets the warmth wash over him like a calming wave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come hang out with me on tumblr! (@just-something-miraculous)


	5. Heartfelt

Yuuri holds his head in his hands, waiting for his vision to clear. The comforting buzz of the overhead lights lulls him into a trance. He can no longer hear the shouting of the authorities down the hall. His boss had called the police and the building owners to press charges against the damage. Yuuri's thankful Vitrine isn't owned by Lord Taiga. He doesn't need a reminder of the man who owns the deed to his family's onsen. Doesn't need to remember that an injury means he won't be able to pull in as much money.

 _Useless_ , a voice hisses in his ear. A voice Yuuri is all too familiar with. _Completely useless_.

Grumbling to himself, Yuuri drags his hands down his face. The Gold from the day before―the Gold who'd been dancing through Yuuri's mind all through the previous night―had helped him into the dressing room once Yuuri felt well enough to get to his feet.

Yuuri had apologized over and over for the inconvenience, but the Gold had silenced him with a smile and an assurance that it was no trouble. The Gold had brought Yuuri to the dressing room, and then left him to call a cab. Yuuri had insisted that it wasn't necessary and that he would be fine in a moment, but both of them knew that was a lie.

Yuuri's left leg had been badly sprained. _Not a break, though. Small miracles_. Twisted beneath him when the debris knocked him to the floor. A sprain might not be as tragic as a broken bone, but Yuuri knows it will cause more than enough problems.

A gentle knock sounds on the door, and Yuuri turns. The silver-haired Gold smiles back at him from the entryway. "I called a cab," he says. His accent flavors the words in a way Yuuri finds alluring. The Gold steps into the room, slowly, almost as if Yuuri is a frightened animal cowering in the corner. "It will be here in a few moments."

"OK," Yuuri replies, and then immediately winces at the informality. "Thank you."

The Gold comes to stand beside him. "I just realized I haven't properly introduced myself. I'm sorry about that. My name is Viktor Nikiforov." He flashes Yuuri a smile that's brighter than the sun, and for a moment, Yuuri forgets the pain in his leg. The despair beginning to crawl through him. He forgets everything except the way those blue eyes entranced him the night before. The way they are currently dragging him out of himself and into the light.

"I'm Yuuri," he replies. He's surprised by how easily his words flow. How he can manage to form a single sentence with the buzzing in his skull.

"It's nice to meet you, Yuuri." Viktor glances down at Yuuri's wounded knee. The pant leg has been ripped open, and crimson blood trickles down from the scrapes. "Though, I do wish it was under better circumstances."

"It's fine," Yuuri says, though he knows it's anything _but_. He goes to press the palm of his hand against the injury―and then thinks better of it. He clenches his hands into fists. "Sorry, um, could you grab that first-aid kit over there?"

He gestures to the small bag tucked away in the corner of the room. His boss had insisted on keeping one, just in case of emergencies. It's not anything impressive, but anything is better than nothing.

Viktor stands without a word and hurries to the medical bag. He rifles through it, grabs some antiseptic and bandages, and then hurries back to Yuuri.

Yuuri reaches for them with a murmured "thank you", but Viktor holds his hand up and stops him. "It's all right. I've got it."

Yuuri freezes as Viktor sprays the antiseptic on his wound. It stings, but Yuuri can't feel it over the roaring in his skull. He watches in a distant daze as Viktor makes quick work of cleaning the scrapes on his leg. Then he wraps the bandages a number of times around Yuuri's knee. His hands are firm but warm. Yuuri finds himself wondering about Viktor's abilities. Judging from the strength coiled in his fingers, Yuuri thinks he must possess superhuman strength.

"There," Viktor says, flashing him a smile. "All set."

Yuuri stares back at him, and it takes him a moment to realize he hasn't thanked Viktor yet. "O―oh, um, thank you." He sets his foot on the ground, gently. His knee still aches, but not as much as before. He hopes that means it will heal quickly, and he can return to work without issue.

"The taxi should be here, soon," Viktor says, and Yuuri nods without thinking. He can't afford to waste the money on a taxi, but he secretly hopes his boss will at least be willing to pay for it. Yuuri is a good, loyal employee, and he hopes his hard work has at least earned him a simple ride home. "Where do you live?"

"Not far." Yuuri shifts his leg with a wince. _Definitely_ a bad sprain. "Downtown. It's, um―it's an onsen, actually."

Viktor's eyes light up. "An onsen?"

Yuuri unconsciously rubs the back of his head. Fortunately, the cut on his cheek wasn't as bad as his sprain. A small Band-Aid, kept in the makeup desk, had taken care of it. "Yeah. Yutopia Katsuki. My family owns―" Yuuri winces. "Er, _works_ there." He swallows down the pang in his chest at the memory that _technically_ Lord Taiga owns his home. Owns the business his mother and father have lovingly tended to for the majority of their lives.

"Wow." Viktor claps his hands together. "An onsen. I've heard about them, but I've never seen one." His blue eyes sparkle, and Yuuri is once again stricken by just how handsome he is. Yuuri had only seen him at a distance before. Up close, Viktor is something from a dream. Haunting and otherworldly in a way Yuuri can't seem to place. "I can't wait to see it."

"I―wait, _see_ it?" Yuuri shakes his head. "What?"

"I'm taking you home," Viktor says, a brief look of confusion flickering across his face. "I'm worried about your leg, and I want to make sure you get home safe."

Yuuri feels his face burn crimson. He's strangely self-conscious about it. Viktor is a Gold, and Yuuri is a Red. He _knows_ the color of his own blood, and it's never made him nervous before. But sitting across from Viktor, Yuuri suddenly wishes he could hide his blush, hide the pale redness beneath his skin under mountains of clothes. "You don't have to do that," Yuuri says, quickly stumbling over the words. "Really, you've done more than enough. Thank you. But, really―I'm fine now."

"Please," Viktor says, giving Yuuri a warm smile. "I insist."

Yuuri feels a protest forming in his throat―but it goes nowhere. Simply because he, strangely, _doesn't_ want to protest. He lowers his head and nods. He doesn't look up to see Viktor's pleased smile, but he can feel it. Warm like the sun. Warm like the blood surging through his veins. And Yuuri feels himself smiling, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come hang out with me on tumblr! (@just-something-miraculous)

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr @just-something-miraculous


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